There
by alanwolfmoon
Summary: Six months after the crash, House is tortured by memories and nightmares. Wilson doesn't notice until after House is pushed past his limits. Catationia, until 5 years later. This story has a string of sequels which will be posted as chapters.
1. There

1House sobbed, sitting on the floor of his office, knees hugged up tight against his chest.

His face was wet.

Why was his face wet?!

What was going on!?

She was in front of him, blood streaming out of her leg around the brushed steel pole.

Blood.

It must be blood.

He raised shaking hands up to his face, and tried to wipe it away.

It kept coming out.

He was crying blood.

Her blood.

He was crying out her blood.

No! She couldn't lose more blood than she already had!

He crawled forward, and the blood kept dripping down, onto her beautiful face.

He pulled her red scarf off, but it was wet, heavy, soaked with blood.

It was everywhere, surrounding him, a sea of blood, they were drowning in the—

"House!"

He gasped, jerking back so fast he cracked his head on the wall of his office.

"House, are you okay?"

He knew that voice.

Wilson.

He looked around.

He was in his office.

There was no sea of blood, no dying amber.

His hands were empty and wet with tears. Not with blood. Just tears.

Warm, salty tears.

He wiped his face, and his sleeve came away with just more tears.

All of a sudden, his stomach rebelled, and he threw up onto the carpet, heaving miserably even after he had brought everything he had eaten up.

A hand rubbed over his back, but that only made him sicker.

Finally, with a last, trembling heave, he collapsed forwards, lying on the puddle of vomit, unconscious.

*T*

Wilson sat on the edge of House's bed, watching his friend move restlessly in his sleep, mumbling feverishly.

He sighed, and reached out, gently shaking House's shoulder.

House curled, arms around his head, whimpering.

"House," said Wilson, loudly, gripping both his friend's shoulders and shaking them, "House, come on, wake up!"

More desperate mumbling, more breathless whimpering.

"House! House, come on! HOUSE!"

House was crying now, in his sleep.

"House, come on! It's okay, wake up!"

Another round of shaking, and House finally shot out of the bed, knocking Wilson over onto the floor and falling on top of him, tangled in the sheets, confused, and extremely upset.

Wilson grunted, shoving House off his stomach.

House was throwing up again, miserably.

"Come on," said Wilson, quietly, gripping his friend around the shoulders, and helping him drag himself to his feet, "let's get you to the bathroom."

House didn't answer.

He walked when Wilson tugged on his arm, and he sat when Wilson gently pressed on his shoulders.

His eyes were closed, and he was trembling, violently.

Wilson sighed, and ran cool water over the washcloth, gently wiping House's face.

"Come on, buddy," he said, "it's okay. Can you look at me? Look here, okay?"

House's blue eyes slowly made their way up to Wilson's brown ones, and a look of deep, deep hurt crossed his face.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, lowering his eyes, "I'm… so sorry."

He was trembling more violently.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm—"

"House!"

House jerked, looking up at Wilson's face.

"Do you know where you are?"

House looked around the room.

….

His bathroom.

Not the hospital.

His bathroom.

He reached up, rubbing his eyes.

Then he realized Wilson was watching him, and dropped his hand.

"I'm fine," he said, and limped out past Wilson without another word.

Wilson tried to follow him into House's bedroom, but House slammed the door before he got near it.

He sighed, shaking his head, and went to sit on the couch, to wait until House felt in control again.

*T*

A few minutes later, the door opened, and House limped out.

"Hey," said House, plopping down on the couch next to Wilson, "you want pizza?"

Wilson stared at him.

"House… not even you can get over—"

"Get over what?" snapped House, "I had a bad dream. I was confused. There's nothing to get over."

"You had a panic attack earlier."

"Again. Nothing to get over. I'm fine. Now, pizza?"

Wilson shook his head, "House, you need to talk about this! Panic attacks and nightmares are usually triggered by things that are stressing you out! You want them to keep happening?"

House looked at him, silent.

Of course.

Wilson doesn't know.

He doesn't know what Cuddy and Cameron and Chase and Brenda and everyone that's been around House for the last six months knows.

That this was actually a good day.

That days when he's not on the bus more than he's in reality are good days.

House looks away, and gets up.

"I'm going back to the hospital. Got work to do. Let yourself out."

He limps away, out the front door.

Wilson stares after him, dumbfounded.

"House," he says, just as House gets to the door, "what's wrong?"

House turns around, and looks at him calmly for a moment.

"Nothing," he says, "I just have work to do."

And with that, he's gone.

*T*

He doesn't go to the hospital, though.

He drives to a park, and it's so late out that there's nobody there.

He sits on a park bench, and lets himself break down, head in his hands, body trembling uncontrollably.

He doesn't want Wilson to know.

He doesn't want Wilson to pity him.

Because that would be worse than Wilson hating him.

But it hurts.

And he's alone.

And it hurts.

He presses his hands over his chest, because it hurts so much.

It hurts.

He smiles.

It's comforting, though. This pain.

It's the only thing he really knows, pain.

The only emotion he understands.

It hurts.

And he wishes it would stop.

But he isn't scared.

He isn't uncomfortable. He isn't awkward. He doesn't have to try to figure anything out.

He understands this pain.

The puzzle he's always known the answer to.

Every second, of every day, since he can remember.

He understands pain.

*T*

Later, he gets up, and limps to his car.

He drives back to his apartment, and is surprised to find Wilson asleep on his couch.

He sighs, and watches his friend's face.

He reaches down, and gently brushes a few strands of brown hair out of the younger doctor's sleeping face.

Wilson stirs, and opens his eyes.

"Mmm… House?" he mumbles, rubbing at his face with one hand.

"Yeah, Jimmy. Go back to sleep. You look terrible."

Wilson smiles sleepily, and closes his eyes.

House tugs the couch blanket up over him.

"Get some sleepy, Jimmy."

He limps into his bedroom, and collapses onto the bed, exhausted.

He doesn't close his eyes, though.

He doesn't want to dream.

*T*

So he lies awake.

And he doesn't dream.

He doesn't see the bus.

He just sees his ceiling.

*T*

No.

This is worse than being on the bus.

He would rather be in pain than act in fear of it.

He's much more used to pain than fear.

He closes his eyes, and sleeps.

And he dreams.

And Wilson doesn't wake.

And he dreams.

*T*

He wakes, and he's screaming.

Because he's had a break from the bus and is instead dreaming of the tub and the ice.

And those were times when he was afraid.

When he was terrified.

When he begged.

When he asked, and it didn't come.

When he cried out for help, and none came.

When he still believed in good.

He has always believed in right.

But he stopped believing in good a long, long time ago.

*T*

Nobody came.

He was alone.

Wilson hated him.

He had done every damned thing he could, he had pushed himself until his body and mind gave out.

He was broken, and he had failed.

And Wilson left him broken.

And nobody came.

He cries, and shakes, and sobs for hours.

And nobody comes.

*T*

Someone does come, though too late.

It's Wilson, and he's frantically worried about his friend because he finally woke and noticed the sounds coming from the bedroom.

And as House slides off the bed, throwing up again, he's smiling.

And he laughs.

Because he's gone.

It's just too late.

*T*

Five years later…

Chase smiles, as he enters the familiar room, and pulls up the familiar chair.

He reaches over, and gently shakes House's shoulder.

Nothing, but then again, getting a response wasn't really the point.

"Hey, House," he says, "it's Chase. Brought something I thought you'd find interesting."

He opens the journal he brought with him.

"West coast journal of experimental medicine. You know how Foreman got a job out in California? Well I found an article by him. Thought you'd get a kick out of it."

He starts to read, ignoring the blank blue eyes, the lids only half open, as they have been since Wilson brought House into the hospital.

House has been catatonic since that day.

A nurse comes in, and Chase pauses reading to help her give House his meds.

She leaves, and he picks up the journal again.

House's kids moved on to various hospitals—Chase doesn't know where, with the exception of Thirteen, who moved out to California with Foreman.

Cameron split up with Chase and moved to Minnesota.

Wilson quit oncology and got a job at a childrens' hospital somewhere in Arizona.

Cuddy got an offer for dean at the mayo clinic and took it.

Chase himself found out that he was listed as House's medical proxy.

This explains why Cuddy listened to Chase when he explained House wanted ketamine after he was shot.

Chase has continued to work at Princeton Plainsboro, but he's now running the diagnostics department.

It's strange, with a dean of medicine other than Cuddy.

But at least he has time to hang out here, that way.

One of the monitors beeps, and he looks up from the journal.

House's pulse-ox has fallen off.

He stands, and gently reattaches it to House's finger.

"Hey, buddy," he says, quietly, gently brushing the backs of his fingers over House's cheek, "hang in there, okay? Just get better. Stay in there as long as you need to… but… I miss you."

Chase didn't realize how much he cared for House until he was like this.

Which sucked.

*T*

A nurse comes in, "Dr. Chase? Someone's looking for you."

Chase raises an eyebrow, "who?"

"Um, a patient?"

Chase sighs, "where are they?"

"In your office."

Chase groans, and, setting the journal on the bed, leans over House, smiling reassuringly, "gotta go. People dying, all that. I know you understand."

Later, Chase has closed his eyes, as he stands next to the bed, hand gently resting along the side of House's face.

He lost the patient.

He had them admitted, and he was reading through the file, when they just… died. Their heart gave out.

The autopsy is scheduled for the next day.

He looks around, and there's nobody there.

So he leans down, and he's about to kiss House on the forehead, because he feels that this is appropriate, when he realizes those eyes are open all the way.

And they're looking at him.

"What, are you trying to molest me?" asks House.

Chase blinks for a moment.

Then he finishes the gesture.

House shoves weakly at his chest.

"Get off. I'm already back, I don't need a kiss, Dr. Charming."

Chase laughs, quietly.

He should be shocked, surprised, delighted, elated.

But all he feels is relieved.

Relieved and pissed off.

Pissed off soon overcomes relieved.

"Do you have any idea how bloody much you've worried me?!" he yells.

"Uh," says House, "yeah. I… could hear you. I couldn't respond. But I could hear and see you."

Chase blinks.

"Oh."

"I'm sorry," says House, quietly.

Chase shakes his head, "you're back."

House nods.

Chase turns away, putting the journal from House's bed on the table.

Then he turns back to House.

Who is blank again.

He hurriedly shakes House's shoulder.

House blinks at him, "what?"

Chase bites his lip and shakes his head.

"Nothing."

*T*

It's pretty clear after a week, that House is only there when someone's interacting with him.

But… Chase finds this a tremendous improvement over five years of avoiding bedsores.

House is completely weak, because everything has atrophied.

Especially his leg.

Chase helps him off the bed for the first time, and he collapses.

Chase catches him, though, and sits him on the chair.

He's gone again, but Chase can tell it's because of the pain his leg is giving him.

Chase schedules him for PT, and takes him down, talking to him all the way.

There aren't that many people left here that knew him five years ago.

Brenda is still here.

And a few interns that are now residents.

But a lot of people moved on after Cuddy left.

The new dean, while he was a decent guy, and did a good job, just wasn't Cuddy.

House isn't there during PT.

But Chase doesn't mind.

He's good at picking up the pieces.

And… this time it's easier.

This time there's still someone in there.

House isn't there when he's in more pain than usual, and he isn't there when he's alone.

But when Chase is with him, when they're talking…

He's House.

*T*

It's a month after he woke, when House is released from the hospital.

Chase takes him home, and they sit together, and watch TV.

House is incredibly open, for House.

But Chase knows this isn't the fault of him being there only some of the time.

He knows it's because of the five years Chase stuck by a shell of a person that might one day be House again.

It's because off all the things he said, all the things House heard.

It's because House knows Chase loves him, and although Chase never said in what sense, it doesn't seem to matter to House.

Because House knows Chase knows what it feels like to be abandoned, and he trusts the younger doctor to never do that to him.

So they sit and watch TV, and though it doesn't seem like much, it's a lot.

It's a lot for both of them.

Chase takes House to work with him, after that.

It isn't hard.

Charlie, the dean of medicine, avoids the diagnostics office.

And there aren't any other employees besides Chase.

He and House sit at the table, and play checkers with paperclips because Chase can't find the chesspieces, but he can find the board.

House seems tired, but he doesn't say anything.

Chase eventually pushes the gameboard a bit to the side, and House looks at him.

"Get some rest," says Chase, and House nods.

*T*

House still has tortured dreams.

He's had them for the last five years, and he still has them now.

Chase watches House curl up on the recliner, and his blue eyes drift shut.

Chase sighs a bit, and lays his own labcoat over his… what? … friend. Yes. That was probably the word.

House snuffles a bit more, and Chase pulls a chair over, sitting backwards in it as he watches House sleep.

As House starts to toss and turn, Chase reaches over, and grips House's hand.

House seems to calm, and Chase sighs, relived.

Sometimes, contact is enough.

Sometimes, it's all it takes.

Just for House to know someone is there, that he's not alone.

Just like when he's awake.

Chase smiles, as House's face smoothes out, pain and fear lines disappearing.

Chase remembers the first time he saw House clean-shaven.

It had been disconcerting, how open the man looked. He looked… kind of dorky, and common. Just some guy in a hospital bed.

Chase bought a razor with a guard on it, so it would leave some stubble.

House was still House. Even if he was catatonic.

Back in the present, Chase gets up briefly, to get the file he's been working on. The patient isn't that sick, for once, so he has time to actually do tests, and stuff.

He likes it when he gets a case like that. Before, it meant he had more time to visit House.

Now, it means he has more time to actually interact with House.

House stirs slightly, and Chase grips his hand again.

House opens his eyes.

"Chase?"

Chase nods, "yeah. I'm here."

House nods to himself, and closes his eyes again.

Chase squeezes his hand, and waits until he drifts off again to look back down at the file.

House eventually wakes again, and Chase shows him the file.

They go back and forth over the diagnosis, House comes with him to the lab, and they both pretend it's because House wants to check Chase's results, and not because he'll not be there if Chase leaves him in the office.

*T*

Then comes the conference.

Charlie talks Chase into coming, and Chase has little choice about bringing House.

He can't leave him alone for an entire night.

House is like a toddler. And Chase isn't about to call a babysitter.

So House grudgingly puts on a suit and tie, and Chase follows him around the apartment with a comb, trying to get his hair into something resembling order.

Chase loves times like these.

When House is the House that he remembers.

House rarely isn't there at the apartment, these days, at least when Chase is home.

Chase is glad.

Chase never thought he would be happy to have House snapping and snarking at him from another room, but… he is.

They sit at a table, and House is a bastard to everyone around him, and Chase tries to mediate things to avoid a fistfight breaking out.

Then, suddenly, he hears a familiar set of voices, and looks over his shoulder.

Foreman and Cameron are there.

Chase taps House on the shoulder, and House turns around to look.

Foreman, Cameron's mouths drop open.

Chase realizes he has forgotten to tell everyone House woke up. He just hadn't talked to them in so long…

House and Chase get up, and come over to talk.

Cameron can't stop staring at House.

Finally, she breaks down, and grabs him around the shoulders.

House grunts, and for a moment, he's blank.

Then Chase touches his shoulder, and he looks at the younger doctor, sighing, and gently easing Cameron off.

Chase smiles, and turns back to Foreman.

A few moments later, he notices that House has wandered off, and has to stop talking to look for him.

Foreman spots him in the crowd, and points him out to Chase.

Chase realizes what happened, when he sees the person House is watching.

Wilson.

Who hasn't noticed House's presence.

Chase shoulders through the crowd, and grips House's shoulder.

"House?"

House looks at him.

He looks… hurt.

He's not there, but Chase can see a residual expression of pain on his face.

Chase sighs, and leads House away, out of the main room.

He puts his arms around the older doctor, and House rests his head on Chase's shoulder, trembling.

Chase sighs, as he feels the tension eventually leave House's body.

House leans on him, and Chase pulls a chair over, so House can sit down.

He looks… weary.

"You wanna go home?" asks Chase, squatting and gripping House's hand.

House shakes his head, calm again, "nah. I just… got kind of shaken."

Chase blinks.

That's the first time House has ever admitted to being aware of when he's not there.

He's talked about how he just couldn't make himself move or respond, during the five years.

But he never seems to know what Chase is talking about, when Chase tells him he spaced out.

Chase sighs, and squeezes House's hand.

"Okay," he says, and stands, giving House a hand up, "let's go get drunk on the punch and see if we can get laid."

House laughs, and starts to follow Chase into the main room.

The door opens, though, and two people come in.

House stops.

Chase, feeling a sudden wave of protectiveness, grabs House's hand.

House's fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on Chase's.

Wilson turns from his female friend, and stops.

How he looks reminds Chase a lot of House when he isn't there.

Wilson turns to his date, and says something quietly to her.

She nods, and leaves.

Wilson turns back to stare at House and Chase.

House's hand is tightening more and more in Chase's.

Chase squeezes back.

"What… when did…"

"A few months ago," says Chase.

"Why didn't you tell me?!" says Wilson, loudly, and House flinches.

Chase feels anger rising up.

He lets go of House's hand, steps forward, and punches Wilson on the jaw.

"You did it to him!" he yells, "and you're mad at me for not telling you he healed?! Why, so you could come and hurt him all over again?!"

He's furious now, completely out of control.

He starts to yell, scream, lash out at Wilson every way he knows how.

He yells until he's completely hoarse, until he has no voice left to yell with.

Wilson is curled on the floor now, arms around his head to protect himself.

Chase feels himself being dragged off, and punches the person doing the dragging.

Five years.

Five goddamn years of anger at Wilson are all coming out at once.

Suddenly, there's a hand on his shoulder.

It isn't the person who's holding him back.

It's House.

Chase slumps in the person's grip, and they let go, allowing him to sink to the floor, crying.

House kneels next to him, and holds him close, as he cries.

Wilson slowly uncurls, and looks at House, his nose dripping blood onto his white dress shirt.

House shakes his head, eyes fixed on Wilson as Chase clenches his hands in House's shirt.

"I know you didn't mean it," he says, quietly, and Chase can feel the vibrations of House speaking.

Wilson nods, raising a hand to check if his nose is broken.

Then, Foreman and Cameron fight their way out of the people crowded by the door, and they are followed by Cuddy, who kneels in front of Wilson, and looks at House.

She looks at the same time both sad and happy.

Sad for the past, for all the pain all of them have gone through.

Happy that he's sitting there, holding the sobbing blond close, instead of lying unresponsive in a hospital bed.

Cameron kneels by House and Chase, as Foreman hands Cuddy a wad of tissues to press to Wilson's nose.

"OW!" says Wilson, loudly, at the pressure on his nose, and the tension breaks.

House laughs, and Wilson glares half-heartedly.

House gently eases Chase, who has fallen asleep, off, and Cameron lays him out on the floor, wiping the tears off his face.

House stands with a grunt of pain, and limps heavily over to Wilson, giving him a hand up.

They both fall.

They sit, looking at each other, and Wilson knows.

He knows that the hurt he imparted to this man in front of him is something that cannot be forgiven.

But he knows, also, that House doesn't hate him.

And that's something that he didn't know, though the last five years.

Five years of his life that resembled very strongly House's ten years of self-destruction.

Then, he realizes.

House isn't there.

Wilson panics, and shakes House's shoulders.

House doesn't respond.

Wilson stares at him, breathing heavily, horror in his eyes.

Chase stirs, and sits up.

He sighs, and crawls over, to wrap an arm around House chest from the back.

House blinks for a moment, then turns his head, looking over his shoulder at Chase.

"No more beating people up?" he asks, cheerily.

Chase smiles, weakly, "no, I think I've fulfilled my quota for the next five years."

He looks at Wilson, and his eyes hold no remorse.

Wilson shakes his head. He doesn't expect forgiveness, or apology.

Chase nods, then resumes his conversation with the older doctor.


	2. Here

Chase sighed, putting the car into gear.

He looked over at House, who was sitting shotgun, looking out the window.

"House?" he asked, pulling away from the curb.

House twitched slightly, which let Chase know he was there, just acting weird.

"Is your leg bothering you?"

House shrugged, a tiny bit, and continued to stare out the window.

Chase's phone started ringing, and he reached down into his backpack, searching for it.

He glanced down to try and find it, and when he looked up, the car in front of him was not moving, and a foot away.

When he regained awareness, the first thing he saw was white.

Then he registered a hand on his shoulder, and he was pulled off the airbag, gently, and a hand brushed over his cheek.

He turned his head, looking to his right.

House was staring at him, nose bleeding freely, blue irises islands in the seas of panicked white.

"Chase," he said, in a hoarse whisper.

Chase sighed, and reached over, unlocking House's seatbelt, and then pulling the older doctor close with one arm.

"It's okay," he said, into House's bald spot, "it's okay. Shhh."

The horn started going off of its own accord.

Chase closed his eyes, and squeezed just a little tighter.

He felt a hand tangle itself in his shirt.

Chase's left hand had been on the top of the steering wheel, and when the airbag had deployed, it had done something to his forearm, and the seatbelt had dug into his shoulder. When he looked, he discovered his forearm was bent in the middle, where it wasn't supposed to be. But he couldn't feel it. In fact, he couldn't feel anything in that arm from the shoulder down.

House continued to hold onto him, even when the door opened, and Chase turned some to talk to the policewoman standing there.

"Is he alright?" she asked, frowning.

"Yeah," said Chase, "just a bit shaken up."

"There's an ambulance on its way, I just need to get your statement of what happened before they take you to the hospital."

Chase nodded, "my phone was ringing, I looked down to find it, when I looked up, the car was stopped."

As if on cue, the phone started ringing again.

Chase sighed, "I need to see if this is something important… I'm a doctor, and I've got a patient that's in critical condition…"

She nodded.

Chase gently pushed House a little bit away, while he reached for the phone, then let him hold on again, as he answered.

As he straightened a bit, the seatbelt dug further into his shoulder, sending intensely painful bolts of agony shooting up and down the length of his arm.

"Ahཀ" he yelled, dropping the phone, and clocking House on the side of the head with his elbow, when his right arm moved instinctively to grab the shoulder.

"Sorry," he gasped, "didn't mean to hit you."

House responded by reaching down, gripping the phone, and putting it to his ear.

Chase watched, panting, and a little surprised.

House seemed to have very little interest in the patients, or even the puzzles.

Chase still talked to him about the cases, but House never showed any interest.

Finally, after a pause, House responded, voice sounding… well, incredibly normal.

Sarcastic, grouchy, condescending.

"It's myelogenous meningitis," he said, then shut the phone with a snap.

He raised his head off Chase's chest, and his face, though smeared with blood, looked normal.

"House," said Chase, quietly, "it's okay. I'm okay. You don't have to protect me."

House closed his eyes and put his head down again, starting to tremble.

Chase sighed, and looked back at the policewoman.

"Sorry," he said.

"Is… is it okay that he…"

"It's fine. He's a doctor, just with some psychiatric issues."

She blinked, but shrugged, and started asking Chase more questions about the crash.

The ambulance arrived, and House had to let go while the emergency serviced guys got the shoulder and arm stabilized, the seatbelt off, and Chase onto a gurney.

House followed them, and wouldn't let go of Chase's hand for anything.

He didn't even seem to be there, anymore, just still holding on.

Chase explained what was up with him to the paramedics, so they would stop telling House he needed to let go when he wasn't hearing them at all.

By the time they got to St. Sebastian's, Chase was exhausted from the painful sensations radiating from his shoulder, and when they gave him pain meds, he just managed to ask for someone to call Foreman, who moved back to Princeton after Remy killed herself.

Foreman isn't exactly the picture of mental health right now, but at least he's more stable than House, who is completely not there, and doesn't seem to be waking up for any of the doctors trying to get him to let go of Chase's hand.

Then Chase succumbs to the medication, and sleeps.

*T*

When he wakes up, the pain shooting though his arm is just as bad, but his other aches and pains have diminished some.

He looks around, and sees Foreman sitting in a chair, reading, and occasionally glancing up from his newspaper to check on House, who is sitting on a cabinet, face still coated in blood.

His nose is slightly crooked.

"Foreman."

Foreman looked up.

"I think his nose is broken."

"Yeah," said Foreman, getting up and gripping House's shoulders, gently easing him off the cabinet, "he wouldn't let anyone fix it."

Chase reached over, gripping House's hand, when it came in range.

"House," he said, quietly, "hey, can you look at me? Look here, okay?"

A sort of twitchy blink is the only response.

"House," says Chase again, squeezing the hand, "hey, buddy. Come on. It's okay. Look here, okay? Over here. It's okay. Hey, House. You in there?"

Another twich, and a few fluttery blinks.

Finally, House's eyes meander down to Chase's face.

But they don't clear, they're still unfocused.

Chase frowns, panic filling his chest.

But then House climbs onto the bed, and lays down next to Chase, draping himself across Chase's chest.

He rests his head so that his ear is right over Chase's heart, and grips Chase's hospital robe loosely with his right hand.

Chase sighs, and gently strokes House's hair, "I'm okay."

He mouths a thank you to Foreman, who nods in response, and picks up his newspaper.

House stays there for a long time without moving, and Chase continues to stroke his hair until he can't anymore because he's fallen asleep.

*T*

When Chase wakes, House is still awake. And this time he's really awake—he's there, and sitting up, and watching Chase.

"Hey," says Chase, quietly.

House takes a deep breath, and lets it out, slowly, though his mouth because his nose is quite swollen.

"Hey," he says back, and touches Chase's cheek in a way he has never done before.

It's not inappropriate, or even remotely sexual.

It's just this tender brush of his fingers against Chase's cheek, with his blue eyes at the same time sad and comforting.

Chase gently grips House's hand, and they stay there for a while, in silence.

"I think your nose is broken," says Chase, quietly.

House nods, "it is."

"Any word on my shoulder?"

"The nerves are damaged. They came in and stabilized it a while ago."

Chase frowns a bit, "you… did they need you to move or something?"

House had been there when Chase hadn't even been awake?

House shook his head.

"I had to listen to your heartbeat," he says, and he almost sounds ashamed.

Chase squeezes House's hand.

"Thank you," he says, with a bit of a smile, "I'm glad you were listening."

House sighs.

"Don't."

Chase frowns a bit, "don't what?"

"You shouldn't have to do this."

Chase sighs, and shakes his head.

"Come here. Lie down next to me."

House did.

Chase wrapped his hand around the back of House's head, pulling it close, until their foreheads were touching.

"You are worth any amount of sacrifice when you aren't here. You would be worth it, even if you were any trouble at all when you aren't here. Which you aren't."

House's blue eyes met Chase's aqua ones, a little confused.

"Don't you think for a moment that you're a burden to me, House. Because you're not. You're a blessing."

House snorted derisively, at that.

Or, rather, tried to.

All he managed to do was spray blood over Chase's face, his own face, and the bed between.

"Owཀ" he said, loudly, reaching up with both hands to hold his nose as he sat up, blood dripping off his chin.

Chase, still lying flat, face splattered with blood, laughed.

House looked at the younger doctor with watering eyes.

"Okay," said Chase, smiling a bit, "sometimes you are a little annoying."

House laughed.

*T*

"Yeah," said Chase, sighing heavily into the phone, "you heard me right, Charlie…"

'Why the hell won't he put on pants?'

"I honestly have no idea…"

'Well… what, I know you can't leave him alone… but you've got a case.'

Chase sighed, rubbing his forehead with his clumsy hand, as he held the phone to his ear with the other.

"She's already got a diagnosis. Treatment is someone else's job. Her regular doctor's. she can be discharged as soon as she's stable, you don't need me there for that."

'So… what, you're skipping work?'

"No, I'm taking a family emergency day."

'It's not an emergency, and he's not technically your family.'

"Charlie… how do you see this conversation ending? With me coming to work and leaving him half naked and alone? Or with you getting mad at me because you want me to do something you know I *can't* do."

A long sigh from the other end of the phone.

'Fine. But answer your consult emails.'

"Okay."

Chase hung up, sighing.

He held on to the phone for a moment, then lifted his hand off of it, and turned around.

House was sitting on the couch on top of a blanket, which was pulled up between his legs, and against his chest as he wrapped his arms around it.

It had been a compromise. So Chase didn't have to keep looking at House's balls.

Not that Chase really *minded* looking at House's balls, but… it was kind of distracting…

Chase walked over, and sat down next to him on the couch.

House grinned sleepily.

Chase looked at him.

"House?"

Nothing.

Chase shrugged to himself, and wrapped an arm around House's back, pulling him over.

This had been happening more and more often, in the apartment. Nowhere else, just here.

At times when House wouldn't usually be there, he'd be… happy-looking, open, semi-responsive, and clingy. Chase had no clue what it meant, but House seemed to like being close to the younger doctor, when it was going on.

House wouldn't have been there right now, because Chase had lost his temper and yelled about the no pants thing.

It had been stupid, but he hadn't gotten much sleep, his patient's diagnosis was fatal, and he had a headache.

Actually, it was probably just having seen Wilson—who had moved back to Princeton, but still working pediatrics, having finished his specialty training—yesterday, that was making him this cranky.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, as House curled against him, close and warm, "I shouldn't have yelled."

He got nothing but a snuffling sound in response… but House was there now, just sleepy.

"Why won't you wear pants?"

House shrugged, not pulling away from Chase, "I don't want to."

Chase had absolutely no idea what this little exercise in pointless stubbornness and irrationality was supposed to achieve.

And he doubted House would tell him.

*T*

Later, House was sleeping on the couch, Chase's arm still around his back as he slept.

Chase found himself… curious.

Through all the last five and a half years, he had seen almost every inch of the older doctor. But he had been very, very careful to respect House's privacy, catatonic or not, about the scar.

But…

Maybe that was…

Did House *want* him to look?

Was that what this was all about?

He didn't look, though.

This could also be about him*not* looking.

House stirs, and raises his head off Chase's chest.

Chase looks down, from watching the TV.

"You ready to get dressed yet?"

House looks at him, blinking sleepy.

"You didn't look," he murmurs, resting his head back down.

"No," says Chase, quietly, "I didn't."

"You should."

"You want me to?"

House nods, and presses his face a little into Chase's shoulder.

"Are you sure?"

"Why else would I refuse to wear pants?"

"How should I know. I have no idea how your mind works, most of the time."

House laughs, quietly, and it's muffled by Chase's body.

Chase takes a deep breath, and looks.

It's ugly.

It's ugly, and… damn, that looks like it hurts.

He looks back at House's face, but House has closed his eyes, almost grimacing.

Chase gently brushes his fingers along House's jaw.

"It looks like a scar from a muscle debridement surgery," says Chase, quietly, "House, I'm an intensivist, remember? I started out as a surgeon. You really thought…"

House looks at him, finally, and his blue eyes are uncomfortably needy.

"It's okay," says Chase, and places his good hand along the side of House's face, "it's just a scar."

He hesitates.

Then he pulls his shirt up, and twists, exposing his back to House's scrutiny.

"Mum threw a gin bottle at me," he explained, "it shattered."

He felt a hand run over the hundred small scars, and shivered slightly, at the touch.

Then, suddenly, there were arms sliding around his waist.

He closed his eyes, and with a great effort, restrained himself.

He gently eased House's arms off, and turned to look at the older doctor.

"No," he said, gently, "I'm not…"

He sighed.

House just wanted contact, there was nothing sexual about it. He wasn't even there.

Chase gently pulled the blanket so it covered most of House, and let the older doctor rest his head on Chase's lap, as House drifted off.

Chase sighed, hand resting on House's back.

When House woke up, he was there, and a little confused as to why his head was in Chase's lap.

But he's found himself in situations like this, missing bits of time and holding on to Chase, or sitting close to Chase, or anything having to do with Chase, plenty of times before.

He sighs, and raises his head, sitting up.

Chase looks at him, frowning.

"You're upset," Chase says, quietly.

"Who am I?"

Chase swallows, looking slightly panicked, "you don't—"

"No… I mean, when I can't remember what I did… who am I?"

Chase sighs, "nobody. You're just sort of unresponsive. And recently you've been sort of clingy…but just to me, and just in the apartment."

House sighs, and rubs his face.

"You thought you had DID?"

"Yeah."

"That… sucks."

House nods, "I used to do this when I was a kid. When bad things happened. I'd wake up somewhere, with no idea how I got there."

Chase looks at the older doctor for a while.

"Why? What bad things?"

House looks at him.

"My dad."

His mouth was open, as though he was going to say more, but nothing came out.

He closed his eyes.

Then laughed, bitterly, and much too loudly.

"What?" asks Chase, slightly alarmed.

"I can't… I literally can't talk about it."

Chase sighs, and puts his hand on House's arm.

The contact seems to help, and House leans against him, sighing.

Chase puts his arm around House's shoulders, and they sit that way for a while, silently.

House finally opens his eyes again, and looks at Chase.

Chase smiles, "TV?"

House shakes his head, and gets up.

He limps across the room, and stands in front of the piano.

Then he eases in behind it, and sits on the bench.

Chase holds his breath.

He had the piano moved here from House's apartment when House first woke up.

But House hasn't displayed any interest in playing it—until now.

He plays.

Chase smiles, and leans his chin on his fists, as his elbows rest on his knees.

House plays for a long time, before his leg starts acting up from using the pedals.

He looks at Chase, tilting his head.

Then he gets up, and limps over, slightly more heavily than usual.

He sits down next to Chase on the couch, and grips Chase's hands, frowning at the palms and fingers.

Chase blinks, and lets him do whatever he's doing.

House *seems* like he's there, but…

"Violin," pronounces House, finally.

Chase splutters, "how did you…."

"You obviously still play it… but not in front of me. Why?"

Chase looks at him.

Then shrugs, "you didn't touch the piano. I don't know, I just thought I should be careful."

House shrugged.

Chase got up, and retrieved his violin case from a drawer, then sat down on the couch, and opened it.

House closed his eyes, as Chase started to play.

*T*

"House?" asked Chase, alarmed, as he looked up from the violin music.

House opened his eyes.

He was sitting with his head in his hands.

The floor was wet under his head, and more wet was dripping off his nose. He was drenched in sweat as well as tears.

An arm was wrapped around his shoulders, shaking him gently.

He raised his head and looked at Chase.

"I…" he swallowed, "I guess I was wrong."

Chase shook his head, "it's okay."

He helped House stand, and walk shakily towards the bathroom.

The older doctor still seemed shaken and confused, so Chase stayed in the bathroom while he took a shower.

House stumbled out, and Chase could tell something was wrong.

He stood up off the closed toilet seat he had been sitting on, and took House's arm.

"Hey," said Chase, softly, "hey, what's up?"

House looked at him, shook his head, shook it again, and turned himself so he could sit on the toilet.

Chase knelt in front of him, taking his hands.

"House. Come on, what's up?"

House shook his head, violently, tears streaming down his face.

Chase squeezed House's hands, waiting.

Finally, House's eyes lifted off his lap to meet Chase's worried ones.

"Sorry," he mumbled, "sorry."

Chase shook his head, but kept gripping House's hands.

"What happened?"

"I just…"

He sighed, shaking his head again.

"During my infarction, Wilson would sit outside the shower, in case I fell. My leg hurt worse than usual 'cause of playing the piano, and I just… got confused."

Chase sighed, nodding, and squeezed House's hands again.

"That's okay. Come on, let's get you dressed—pants included."

House smiled faintly, and let Chase lead him to the bedroom.

Once dressed, House sat on the bed, watching Chase.

"I'm sorry."

Chase, halfway through sorting their laundry, looked at House.

"There's nothing to be sorry for," he said, simply, then turned back to tossing the clothes into two piles.

Suddenly, there was warm air on his neck, and he jumped, turning around.

House was lying on his stomach on the bed, watching Chase kneel on the floor.

"I assume you're about to ask my why I'm making two piles?" Chase has learned that House has almost no knowledge of things like mopping and vacuuming, and he assumes that laundry is probably under the same category.

House shook his head, "you don't grow up with a Marine for a father and not know how to take care of clothes. I just don't bother."

Chase blinked at him, "your dad was a Marine?"

House nodded, "yeah."

Chase smiled, "then you can help me sort."

House groaned, but seemed somewhat cheered.

*T*

House sat down at the table, as Chase worked through a stack of files.

"Foreman."

Chase looked up, "what?"

House reached over, taking the file Chase had been working on, and looking through it.

Chase watched him, confused.

He couldn't honestly tell, these days, whether some of House's weird behavior was him literally being insane, or just the "insaneness" that had predated any actual mental illness.

House frowned down at the file for a few minutes.

Then looked up at Chase.

"Where's Foreman working?"

Chase tilted his head a little.

"Where… was the last place you knew he was working?"

House sighed, leaning his chin on his palm, "I know he moved to California with Thirteen. But when you crashed, he was in the hospital room. And this file was referred to you by him."

Chase nodded, somewhat sadly.

"She killed herself."

House looked at Chase, startled.

"Why?"

"I think because of the Huntington's. Foreman used to email me with how she was doing, just so he could get it off his chest. It progressed unusually fast, and she really wasn't doing well."

House sighed, looking back down at the file.

The room was quite for a while, while Chase waited to see if House would zone out from the information, or if he would be able to handle it.

Eventually, House looked up, back at Chase.

"It was referred from the research department of Princeton Plainsboro."

"Yeah," said Chase, reaching across the table to take the file, "he got a grant to work on a medication for type one Usher syndrome, to prevent vision loss."

House blinked.

"That's… good."

Chase looked at the older doctor.

"Um… you don't sound like it's good."

House shook his head, meeting Chase's eyes, "no, it's good. I just… miss a lot, I guess."

Chase sighed, and reached over, gripping House's arm.

House looked down at Chase's hand for a while, but Chase didn't think he wanted the blond to remove it.

Eventually, House covered Chase's hand with his own.

Chase smiled a little, as he watched House sit.

*T*

House curled on the couch, resting his head on the arm.

Chase was sitting in the armchair, frowning down at his bad hand, as he squeezed the little red ball again and again.

"Why do you keep doing that?"

Chase looked at him, blinking, "why do I keep doing PT?"

"The lady already told you the function won't get any better."

Chase smiled a little.

"Five and a half years ago, your doctor told me you were probably never coming out of the catatonia and couldn't hear me."

House snorted, "that's psychiatry. This is science."

Chase rolled his eyes.

"Well, fine. It also helps keep there from being any regression."

"Regression?"

Chase frowned, "yeah… atrophy, weakness…" House didn't usually blank on medical facts…

"I know that."

"Then why did you ask?"

"I meant, was there regression? Did you stop and then realize it was a problem, and then start again?"

Chase shook his head, "no, I never stopped."

"Don't you ever want to stop and see if it makes a difference? See if you can stop? Not have to deal with it? Not have to worry about it?"

Chase looked at House. He seriously doubted House was just curious about Chase's feelings about PT.

House met his eyes, and they looked at each other for a while.

Chase finally answered, slowly, "I… guess it would be nice… to not have to deal with it."

House nodded, and looked away.

*T*

The next day, Chase woke, and House was gone.

They usually slept in the same bed, just so House's nightmares would be kept at bay by Chase's presence.

Not have to deal with it.

CRAPཀ

Chase ran to the phone, called 911, ran out the door, got in the car, and drove around Princeton, hoping desperately that he was wrong, that House hadn't thought Chase's answer meant he didn't want to deal with House anymore.

His phone rang, and he had it to his ear in a microsecond, "yes?"

'Dr. Chase?"

"Yes, this is him."

'We found Dr. House.'

Chase pulled over, good hand squeezed so tight his knuckles were white.

'He's checked into the Princeton general rehab clinic.'

Chase closed his eyes, and rested his head on the steering wheel.

The vicodin.

That's what House had been talking about.

Just the pills.

'Dr. Chase?'

Chase sighed

"Thank you very, very much. I thought… I didn't know what happened."

'It's fine. I'm glad your friend is alright. Do you need the address?'

"No. thanks you again."

The officer hung up.

Chase just sat there for a while, body still trembling slightly from the horrible tension that had been spearing it just moments before.

Finally, he was able to start the car again, and pull back out into the street.

He drove to Princeton general, and got directions to the rehab center, and found House's bed.

He sat down on the foot of it, and watched House sit, not there at all.

"House," he said, quietly.

House twitched, and looked at the younger doctor, eyes red-rimmed and face covered in sweat.

"Hi," he mumbled.

Chase hugged him.

"I thought you killed yourself."

House choked, "what?ཀ Why would I do that?"

"I didn't know what you were getting at last night. I don't know, I thought you might be tired of dealing with losing time…" Chase did not tell House he had thought the older doctor had decided Chase resented looking after him. Because knowing House, he would immediately take the fact that Chase had come to that conclusion to mean Chase really did resent looking after him.

House sighed.

"I… sorry. I guess I should have left a note, or something."

"Yeah," said Chase, squeezing tighter, "that might have been a good idea."

House snorted.

Chase let go, and brushed House's sweaty hair out of the older doctor's face.

"You can do this at home, if you want. You don't have to do it alone like this."

House shook his head.

"No… I… I'm pretty sure I spaced out as soon as the detox started. If I'm at home, I'll be more of a bastard than usual, in a lot of pain, and puke all over the place. If I'm here, and you aren't, then I won't be a bastard to you, just anyone here, I won't experience the pain, and it'll be people who aren't you that I'm puking all over."

Chase smiled, a little, sadly, and continued to run his hand through House's sweaty, thinning hair.

House seemed to appreciate the contact.

"Okay," said Chase, "that makes sense. But I'll visit at lunch and after work, okay?"

House nodded.

"I'm glad," he said, then grimaced heavily as he shifted his bad leg.

Chase sighed.

"Your leg?"

House nodded, gritting his teeth.

He was really suffering right now.

"Hey," said Chase, "I'll leave… so you don't have to be here for this."

House shook his head.

"It's okay," he said, tiredly, "it's not that bad yet."

Chase nodded, and got a towel from the bathroom, wetting it with cool water, and wiping House's sweaty face with it.

House reached up, gripping Chase's hand, as he was about to draw the towel away.

Chase smiled.

"Feel good?"

House nodded, eyes half closed.

He was obviously exhausted.

Chase stayed, leaving the towel right where it was, as House grew drowsy.

Then he gently nudged House down to the pillows, and re-wet the towel, placing it in House's hands.

House smiled sleepily at him, then closed his eyes, and slept.

Chase got up, and walked out, feeling much, much less unhappy than he had when he had woken.

He did visit, after lunch, and after work.

But after two days, it became clear that House was better off if he visited at night, calming the demons in House's dreams, than during the day, when his presence only made House aware of the suffering his body was experiencing.

So after a lot of negotiating, and a promise to come to give a guest lecture on diagnostics, possibly with House, if it was at all possible, he got a second cot in House's room, and slept there, to House's right, his bad hand stretched across the space between the cots, gripping House's.

*T*

House was really miserable.

He would vomit, and that would set off a spasm in his leg, which would in turn cause nausea.

Chase ended up sitting on House's cot, with the older doctor lying across his lap, rubbing House's back as he heaved into a bowl on the cot next to Chase's leg.

Finally, House managed to break the cycle by getting up, grabbing Chase's cot, and slamming the metal frame of it down on his fingers, while Chase sat, kind of stunned.

Chase wasn't exactly sure how that had helped, but when House curled back on the cot, he seemed to be breathing easier, and fell back to sleep, cradling his injured hand close to his chest, his head resting in Chase's lap.

Chase watched him sleep, feeling relieved.

Four days later, House was released from the hospital.

He was in a lot more pain than before.

But, as he sat in the passenger seat of the car, he looked over at Chase, instead of staring out the window like he tended to do.

"Thank you," he said, quietly.

Chase shook his head, eyes on the road.

"You don't have to thank me. I want you to know that—that I'm not going away…. Not even if you want me to."

House chuckled, "and I want to thank you. Because I want you to know I want to thank you. Because I don't want you to leave. Because I want you to know I don't want you to leave. Wait, I think I went one to far on that one…"

Chase smiled, though he couldn't do much more than that while driving.

"I'm glad."

They drove for a while in silence, and were almost to the apartment, when House suddenly spoke up, "go to the hospital."

Chase glanced at him, "why?"

"Because I've got an appointment."

Chase rolled his eyes at House's neglecting to tell Chase these things, and turned around, "who with?"

"Marian Chang."

Chase frowned.

"You…"

He pulled over, and parked, looking at House.

"You made an appointment with a pain specialist. You went to rehab. You're clean."

House nodded, "and in pain, hence the appointment."

"And you're here most of the time."

House shrugged, "as far as I know."

Chase looked at him for a long time.

"House," he said, almost with a smile, "you're healthy."

House shook his head.

"I'm not healthy, Chase. Certainly not mentally. You know that. You know I could see someone who looks like Amber, and suddenly spend another five years catatonic. I'm not cured. I'm not healthy. I'm just…"

He tilted his head a little, considering.

Chase looked at him.

"You're just what?"

House reached across the space between their seats, gripping Chase's wrist, although his two splinted fingers stood straight out instead of curling.

"Happy."

Chase met his eyes for a long time.

Then he leaned across, and House leaned to meet him halfway.

Chase closed his eyes, as they kissed.

It didn't go far.

There wasn't even any tongue.

But it didn't matter.

Because it had finally happened.

And House wasn't the only one that was happy.


End file.
